


And tonight, I'll fall asleep with you in my heart

by Bookish_penguin



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst (but only a little we all wanna stay happy yea), Aziraphale is pissed, Aziraphale tries to beat some demons up, Crowley gets beaten up, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Wings, fluffy sleepover times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 03:38:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19803931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookish_penguin/pseuds/Bookish_penguin
Summary: Surprise surprise, Crowley didn't have such a pleasant time running into his demon friends. Aziraphale tenderly nurses him back to health while inwardly boiling with rage. He finally decides that he was done being nice. The flaming sword was handed to him for a reason, and he was going to use it all right.





	And tonight, I'll fall asleep with you in my heart

“Sir, with all due respect, this is the twelfth complaint we’ve received of a...quote unquote, hideously large, black and extremely venomous python in your bookstore. What do you have to say about that?”

Aziraphale twisted the telephone cord between his index and middle finger absently, searching frantically for an intelligent answer in his too tired mind. Humans had lovely little brains really, constantly buzzing with curiosities and worries that added much-needed nuances to their tiny world. Good for keeping things interesting, but sometimes also made his time here on earth rather infuriating. 

“What do I have to say?” said Aziraphale slowly. “Well, you can’t take him away, sir.” 

The voice grew agitated. “Didn’t you hear a word I just said? Your store is harbouring a hazard—”

Aziraphale’s patience wore thin. “He’s my emotional support snake.” 

“Your...what?” 

“My emotional support snake! I have permits!” He most definitely did not. It’s what the humans would shout whenever they wanted to get their way, however. “Would you like to take this up with my lawyer?” 

Yet another tactic that he had picked up over the years. It was always almost a hundred percent effective, and Aziraphale couldn’t resist a wry smirk as the voice stuttered over the phone, “No! No, this was all just a, uhm, misunderstanding! Emotional support snake it is. I believe you! Have a good night, sir!” 

“You too,” he answered pleasantly, to a line that had already hung up. 

After double-checking that he was truly alone in the bookstore, Aziraphale set the telephone down heavily and sighed. Something about outsiders telling him who he could and could not be with did not sit well with him. _Especially_ when it involved Crowley. Aziraphale noticed that he was always rather prickly when his relationship with the demon was called into question. It seemed as if a part of him constantly wanted to flare up and defend his friend to his very last breath. 

This had everything to do with the way people would look at Crowley; warily and full of deep-seated distrust. Aziraphale hated that look in their eyes. Couldn’t they see the gentle soul that resided within? Six thousand years of unwavering companionship, soft adoring smiles and unexpected kindness? Too little people—humans, demons and angels alike—bothered to understand Crowley, and it _hurt_. Ached and stung harder than if Aziraphale was the one to have been despised himself. 

He wanted to sweep his wings around him. Wanted to shield Crowley from the rest of the world, away from its thoughtless cruelty and the bitter cold that accompanied it. Unknowingly, Aziraphale found his knuckles clenched on his tabletop. It took a while for them to relax again.

The bell by his front door tinkled. Oh dear. Aziraphale hurriedly smoothed his face over and straightened his bow tie, spinning to face his customer with a forced smile. “Good evening. No snakes around tonight, I assure you—”

“Spoke too soon,” Crowley croaked, before collapsing onto his hands and feet. Midnight wings burst from his back. They unfurled to their full lengths and swept quite a few stacks of books off the tables, resulting in an avalanche of books, scrolls, and black feathers. Aziraphale caught one out of the air. As he brushed along its rumpled edge, his finger came off slick with fresh blood. 

Something inside Aziraphale plummeted. He rushed to Crowley’s side and dropped onto his knees. “Crowley! What on earth happened?” 

“Oh you know, met up with a few chumps. Even demons like to come together sometimes, have a nice chat.” 

At Aziraphale’s strained expression, Crowley winced and added, “...Which might have ended with ahem, me getting um...a little bruised.” 

“ _Bruised_? You’re bleeding all over my floor!” 

“Well. Then it’s a good thing most of the bleeding’s internal, right?” 

Aziraphale felt faint. “Crowley, where are you...where are you hurt?” 

He reached for him. The moment he touched Crowley’s chest, the demon hissed and curled in upon himself. Azirphale reeled back as if whipped. He couldn’t apologise fast enough. His words tumbled over the other and in the end, he couldn’t make more than some kind of strangled whimper. 

Crowley looked apologetic as well. “Sorry! Sorry. Just kind of...hurts. You can touch me if you want.”

He reached for Azirphale’s hand. The angel shook his head and pulled away, letting his clasped hands rest over his own heart. He hung his head, half-lidded eyes downcast. Crowley suddenly wondered what hurt more—his broken bones and bleeding wounds or the sight of his sullen angel. He was such an idiot. He never should’ve let Aziraphale think that he had hurt him. 

“Just...show me where it hurts. Please...” 

_Please tell me you’re okay._ The words didn’t come, because Aziraphale was drowning, choking in a sea of shock and horror and rage. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe. Why would anyone do this to Crowley? It was beyond him. He couldn’t understand it, any of it, and the pointlessness of the whole thing infuriated him so much the frustration and the despair clawed at him from the inside out. In this sudden sea of red mist, he was blind and could not see a thing. 

But then—gently, slowly—Crowley’s eyes gleamed like twin beacons of gold light and guided him back to the surface. Impossibly, Azirpahale could breathe again. The biting cold air rushed in and scorched his lungs, shuddering where it sanded in and out through his too-tight throat. His bottom lip trembled. The hands he held to himself trembled. Everything was blurring in and out of focus. 

“Angel, I’m fine.” Crowley smiled tiredly. “I could even take you out for dinner right now if you like—ow, okay, ow, _ow_.” He stopped short, clutching his ribs with a sheepish grimace. “Might need a quick miracle first. Got a couple to spare?” 

At Aziraphale’s silence, Crowley blinked and lifted his head slowly. He couldn’t look up too far with the awful, clicking pain in his neck, but it was far enough. A wave of cold shock racked through him then, more profound than all the bruises and scraps and fractures he carried with him now. Because...

Those were definitely tears falling down the angel’s face, but he could scarcely believe they were real. 

“Aziraphale.” Crowley stared and stared and stared, utterly speechless. “Are you...are you _crying_?” 

“Course I am, you stupid serpent!” Aziraphale nearly bawled, before his entire frame shook with an awful shudder. “You’re hurt!” 

His glassy eyes, wide and tear-stained, were crystalline and shimmery and so very blue. Like aquamarines, Crowley thought. Or the Tenerife sea, under the midday sun. Even the tears that streamed down the angel’s face were no less iridescent, catching prismatic shards of pink and yellow from the light all around, before finally leaving dark stains upon his tartan jacket. 

Crowley was spellbound. He cupped the side of Aziraphale’s face before he knew what he was doing, and marvelled, “You’re beautiful.” 

He’d never seen anything like it. Don’t get him wrong. Throughout the entire history of time, Crowley had never once seen Azirpahale’s face and forgot about it (Believe him, he tried, but ended up just lying awake all night losing himself in those vivid visions). He remembered it all; the first time Aziraphale ever smiled at him—nervous and unsure but still eager to please, all the little crinkles in the edges of his eyes or the furrow between his brows whenever he knew Crowley was up to no good, his rare devious smirks and even rarer glares whenever Crowley had properly done something to annoy him. 

But never ever, had he in six thousand years—no sir, not at all—ever saw Azirpahale’s crying face. 

He wondered once if angels were capable of crying at all. Course he had been an angel once, but it had long become fuzzy and he could scarcely even remember a time when he hadn’t been his charming, demonic, snake-like self. If Crowley had to be honest, crying suited those stiff, pompous angels just about how well crooning suited demons. He might’ve roared with laughter any day to see one of them start sniffling, and yet...

The sight of Aziraphale’s eyes welling up only made his chest pang. Soft Aziraphale, smiling and happy Aziraphale, didn’t deserve to look this way. Helplessly, Crowley thumbed away the tears on the angel’s face. He wished he could rub off every trace of sadness on it. 

“My dear, you choose the oddest moments to flatter me.” Aziraphale’s lips twitched. He caught the back of Crowley’s hand, and leaned his cheek into his palm. Crowley stroked the side of his face softly. It was warm and so very very nice. He could almost forget about all the places he was bleeding miserably out of, or the freezing, leftover fear from the demon attack that had scared him into thinking that he would never come home and see his angel again. 

Aziraphale closed his eyes. He would’ve looked entirely at peace if not for the trembling of his pale lashes, and the never-ending stream of tears down his cheeks. 

Crowley’s heart broke. “Angel...”

Aziraphale pulled away suddenly. He hurriedly wiped the corners of his eyes with too much force, leaving imprints of red on his pale skin. Crowley would’ve moved to pull him back if not for the astronomical pain in his ribs. He could only wince and whimper. 

“Come on.” Aziraphale lifted him up from the floor as if his weight meant nothing to him. “Let’s get you upstairs.” 

————

Aziraphale knew exactly what Crowley needed most when he was hurt, upset or afraid, and that was warmth and lots and lots of wine. 

The fireplace was up and running. Orange flames licked greedily at the logs while the wood crackled and popped, sending a splash of embers that burned out mid-air. It smelled heavenly. So much so that Crowley suspected some kind of miracle was at work here, because the aroma of heat and essential oils was so intoxicating that he felt like a snake being charmed by a pipe (an unforgettable experience, he’d assure you). 

Of course, the wine was divine too. Aziraphale really went all out this time, popping open century-old bottles that he’d always claimed he was saving for a rainy day. The fact that his little run-in (or rather, beat-up) with/by demons counted as a rainy day was unbelievably touching. Crowley was starting to think that maybe...there was a sliver of a chance that the angel loved him back just a little bit. 

Downing bottle after bottle helped numb the pain and soothe his nerves. Aziraphale seemed to have been waiting for this. Very carefully, as if trying not to startle away a frightened animal, he settled behind Crowley with a metal tray in hand. Crowley tried hard not to flinch. He really did. Only, this was exactly how he had been jumped. Stupid demons and their awful jump-scares. Crowley really hated to be taken off guard. The last time that happened, he had sauntered vaguely downwards at the speed of a falling comet, his wings blackening to black on either sides of him. 

It wasn’t something anyone could ever get over. 

“Dear boy, it’s just me,” Aziraphale said kindly, being even more kind as to rub the spot on his back between his wings. It was so nice that Crowley gradually forgot his unease. He experienced the emotional equivalent of melting into a puddle, then swayed and found himself abruptly as a snake splayed limp over a cushion. 

“More exhausted than you were letting on, hmm?” Aziraphale sounded sad. He gave Crowley’s head a tender scratch. 

The sudden pang of ethanol (the unpleasant, medicinal kind) made his nose wrinkle. He was fully aware of the procedure of course. Cuts and abrasions could be easily healed with a quick miracle, but they had to be cleaned first. Seemed pretty pointless to have a sealed wound but an infection soon after. If left to Crowley he really didn’t give a hoot (he’d once miracled a sword wound shut with the sword still in it, and Aziraphale had _freaked_ ) but the angel was always meticulous in everything he did. 

He tensed as the cotton swab came near. Aziraphale softened. 

“Have a drink, my dear?” He waved a hand, and all the excellent bottles of wine refilled themselves. 

Crowley shook his head. Instead, he twined his tail around Aziraphale’s free wrist as if anchoring himself down so he couldn’t get away. That seems to be a good a cue as ever that he was ready. 

“This is going to sting a little.” 

As gently as he could, Aziraphale brushed the tip of the cotton lightly against every wound and sealed them up seamlessly. The tricky ones were the injuries inside, fractured or misaligned bones and ruptured blood vessels. It was hard healing what you couldn’t see. Aziraphale kept his eyes closed in concentration as he imagined the shaft of bones piecing back together, the tears in muscles weaving themselves back into place. It was a good thing Crowley was small in this form. Soon beads of sweat were rolling down Aziraphale’s forehead, and he felt the strain of effort in his temples. 

“There.” He lifted his hands from Crowley’s back. He was once again in human form, staring up at him through hazy golden eyes. “Better?” 

Crowley experimentally gave his shoulders a roll. “Much. Thanks, angel,” he said affectionately, sincerely. “Supper at the Ritz?” 

Aziraphale quirked a tired smile. “Maybe later. I’ve yet to fix your wings.” 

Crowley groaned. His complaints were something along the lines of fussing too much, but still he sat down compliantly and pillowed his head on a chair. Aziraphale brushed his shoulder comfortingly as he passed. He had to rummage around for sterilised tweezers, scissors and a bottle of glue—all necessary equipment, but it’s been a while since he used them. Even the jar keeping his shed primaries was a bit dusty in the back of the drawer. The feathers inside however, were perfectly intact. He drew out a handful—each the length of his forearm—and returned to Crowley with everything in hand.

Crowley choked at the sight of them. “What’re you—you’re _imping_ me?” 

“I know how upset you get from a few plucked feathers, dear,” Aziraphale said calmly, sitting down cross-legged behind him. 

“W—with your feathers?” he spluttered. “Angel feathers?”

“Would you rather I imp you with duck feathers from St James’ park?” 

“No.” Hell no! Crowley was so nervous he almost vibrated on the spot, drumming his fingers anxiously on the seat of the chair. “But those are your feathers, and...well. Um...” 

_They shouldn’t be wasted on someone like me._

Aziraphale seemed to see through him like glass. He smiled so bright it brought tears to Crowley’s eyes. “For you, my dear? Anything.” 

“O—okay,” he croaked. 

Cold metal and warm fingers pressed down lightly into his feathers. A chill shot down his spine. He could feel every fleeting touch, every apply of the gentlest pressure, and it made it virtually impossible to sit still. Aziraphale made a small muffled sound whenever Crowley fidgeted too much and he had to scoop his wing back into his lap. Crowley tried _hard_ not to think about the lap part. Keyword being tried. 

“Are you done yet, angel?” 

“Mmm, not yet.” 

Crowley summoned all the patience within him and counted to a grand total of five seconds before asking again, “Now?” 

“No, dear boy.” 

He groaned and rolled his arms about on the chair seat. “...Now?” 

Fingers abruptly dug deep into his feathers, brushing against the sensitive down beneath. Crowley all but jumped and yelped and (blushed) and hissed. If not for the iron-clad grip Aziraphale had on his shoulders, he would’ve flung himself out of the window right that very instant. 

“I’m so sorry.” Aziraphale sounded like he was fighting back a laugh—which was not sorry at all. “But Crowley, would you please relax? You’re making my job rather difficult.” 

“I’m relaxed!” he exclaimed, voice a few octaves higher than normal. 

Aziraphale trailed a teasing finger along the edge of his primaries, and as if proving his earlier point, Crowley twisted himself into a ball (rather unsuccessfully) and buried his face into his hands. Death couldn’t come sooner. 

“There, there,” consoled Aziraphale’s laughing voice. A hand smoothed up and down his back. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. How long have we been together?” 

Crowley deadpanned. “You go too fast for me, Angel.” 

At the look on Aziraphale’s face, he had to burst out in a fit of laughter. A welcome distraction. Lost in his own intoxicating amusement, he felt nothing but surges of ditzy warmth through his blood, and being embarrassed suddenly seemed like such a silly, trivial thing. 

Aziraphale realised the same thing and quickly seized his chance. Snip went the quill of his white feather, and snip went the shaft of Crowley’s broken one. He deftly peeled off its black webbing; they drifted to the floor like falling shards of the broken night sky. What was left in his hand was a sturdy feather quill of Crowley’s. He inserted it carefully into the hollow shaft of his white feather, until the two fit snugly together and he could trim off the excess. 

Crowley was still chuckling to himself when Aziraphale dug into his wings again with the replacement feather in hand. This time he barely gave more than a shiver. Whatever took over—be it fatigue or alcohol or the aftereffects of his hysteric-laughing episode—Aziraphale had to be grateful for it. He didn’t want to think about applying superglue onto Crowley’s feather shafts when he was jumpier than a particle in the hadron collider. Demons were awfully fussy about their wings; much more than angels were anyway. While brushing his wings could manage to evade his mind and preening was a once-a-week hassle, Crowley would get into a fit if he as much as delayed his grooming time by an hour. 

He might just refuse to talk to him for a century if Aziraphale accidentally slathers glue all over his feathers. Best not to make that mistake again. He’d grown far too dependent on the demon’s company to be able to sit patiently through another thousand years of solitude. Once was enough, thank you very much. 

The replacement feather held steady even after he pulled away. It was a startling snow white against the oppressive darkness of Crowley’s wings. Like first snow falling on dark logs, like pearly stars against the night sky. A contradiction of colours, beautiful and profound like no other. 

“Done,” he announced meekly, just a tad bashful. “Do you...do you like it?” 

Crowley swept his wings forward so he could examine the newly imped whites amidst the sea of his ebony feathers. He stared at them, thoughtfully, softly, an expression of quiet wonder dawning across his face. The way his eyes shone in that instant, rivalled the first rays of sun that would break from the horizon. 

Crowley did not thank him. Aziraphale heard him anyway, both from his heart and the kiss that he planted on the back of his hand. It spoke at volumes far louder than words. 

“Stay here tonight?” With their hands still linked, Aziraphale pulled Crowley to his feet. He placed an arm around his shoulders and helped him over to the couch, which he miracled books away from to clear up some space (only for him). 

“Thanks angel,” Crowley slurred sleepily. He cushioned his head against a pillow and Aziraphale pulled a tartan blanket up to his neck. 

He stroked the side of Crowley’s face with a soft smile. “Sleep well, my dear.” 

“Ngk. Love you.” 

Absently, Aziraphale brushed aside the stray strands of auburn hair falling past his closed eyes. He pressed a kiss to Crowley’s forehead, breathing in the warm scent of him. 

“I love you too.” 

————

The clock chimed two in the morning. Outside, barely anything stirred in the ghostly streets. If a shadow darted between bins in the alleyway, Aziraphale did not notice. If a lone car happened to whiz past with a streak of honeyed headlights, Aziraphale didn’t notice either. 

He sat rigid on the edge of his writing desk, staring at the turn of the second hand unblinkingly. His left hand was frozen perfectly still. His right, tuned like clockwork, polished up and down the length of his sword. It was with such force that thousands of years of dust and rust and blood rubbed cleanly off. The blade all but gleamed. It caught the menacing expression that flashed behind his pale irises—pure, blithering, seething rage. When was the last time he looked like this? He couldn’t remember. If only he never had to remember. He’d very much rather be Aziraphale the occasional bookshop owner and crepe enthusiast, than Aziraphale, Principality, Angel of the Flaming Sword. 

Alas. Perhaps this was just the kind of world they lived in. 

It took fifteen minutes before he spotted them. Faint shadows, crawling in from the far edge of the empty street. Aziraphale set his sword down momentarily. 

“Well then,” he whispered to himself. With a roll of his shoulders, he shed his beige coat and the vest underneath, leaving them folded on his desk. Off came his bow tie, and then the stiff buttons holding his collar and cuffs in place. He rolled the sleeves to his elbows. He untucked his shirt. 

The bell of his door tinkled. Aziraphale did not turn. Instead, he picked up his sword and held it up towards the light, turning it this way and that. The sheen of the blade caught four putrid faces glaring at him with beady eyes from the threshold. 

“I was wondering if you planned on showing up at all,” he remarked flatly. “You’re late.” 

“We knew that traitor ‘uld come crawlin’ back ‘ere,” a demon spat. “Done a good job of hidin’ ‘im, didn’cha?” 

“We’ll be takin’ him back now,” Another snarled, baring rows of shark-like teeth. “An’ don’t try to stop us. We can burn this whole place down any time we want, baby.” 

“Only with the hottest hellfire for ya, _angel_ ,” the last demon cackled. “I’d love to ‘see the Flash Bastard scream while ‘e watches ya burn! And then once it’s all over an’ done, we’ll take our time rippin’ him apart piece by _piece_.” 

The demons had the audacity to laugh. It was a sound so awful, chills rippled through his blood. 

Aziraphale tightened his hold on the sword into a clench. Despite all his restrains, the rose-gold blade still managed to explode into hungry flames, like the blooming of a stark orange flower. The surrounding air trembled in the searing heat. At this the demons doubled back slightly, wincing at the formidable aura of heavenly fire. 

He gave them a tight-lipped smile. “I really wish you hadn’t said that.” 

White wings burst from his back. The demons scuttled away further. As Aziraphale advanced towards them he caught his reflection in the dark windows of the shop, and paused as if overwhelmed with nostalgia. A gold halo crowned the top of his head, leaving flecks of gold upon his cheeks that accentuated the bright turquoise of his cold blue eyes. His lips were pulled into a flat line, his jaw set. His face was frighteningly blank. There was a soldier in the window, staring back at him. 

Aziraphale detested that look of aloofness, that chilling void of emotion that was so representative of the emptiness of heaven and hell. Bad thoughts. Bad. Then he thought about Crowley. Oh _Crowley_. He thought about the nights they’d spend slumped in armchairs, drunk on wine and each other, the times they crossed paths like comets drawn to the other by fate and orbit, Crowley’s devilish smirks, his fond smiles, and eyes, and—

Sooner than he thought, Aziraphale was smiling himself. 

His reflection changed entirely. This time, Aziraphale stood gazing at himself. The image of an angel who saw humanity out of the garden, whose first instinct was to shelter a demon from the rain, who never really knew what he was doing and yet stood firm in his choice between heaven and home. 

His sword cast brilliant flames in the depths of his eyes. There was divinity there, but there was also something extremely human—the will to fight; for themselves and the way they wished to live. _For you, my dear? Anything._ Those were the words he told Crowley, and those were the words he would stand by. 

Aziraphale grit his teeth and fanned out his wings. “Shall we take this outside, gentlemen?” 

————

In his dreams, hands were smothering him. Shadowed, clawed things, closing around his wrists, ankles, _everywhere_ —pulling him under, scratching his skin, ripping out his feathers. He couldn’t get away. He couldn’t even cry out. There was a weight crushing down on his chest that merely made him sink faster, deeper, further away from the light. Oh, this was it. The eternal darkness, fitting for a vile creature like him. 

That is, until a hand pulled him out. 

“Angel?” Crowley choked, shuddering within the warm, steady arms that encircled him. 

“I’ve got you, my dear,” Aziraphale whispered into his ear. His words were a siren’s song, impossible not to heed. It carried with them all of heaven’s power and grace, such that Crowley could only be swept away in its sweet lull and melt fully into the angel’s embrace. It was always this way with Aziraphale. _Safe_. Without him, Crowley would never have known what that word meant. 

It left him fully unprepared for what happened next. 

“Crowley?” Fingers threaded gently through his hair. 

“Aziraphale?” 

“Run, my dear.” 

And then the darkness shot forward as claws and hands that enveloped Aziraphale whole, tearing him loose from Crowley’s grasp. He stumbled onto his knees, scrambling to catch the angel’s outstretched hand, but it too got swallowed up by the tide of hissing black. Then there were flames all around; red, hot, infuriated. Burning books fell like comets around him. They crashed into sprays of flying embers where they hit the ground. It was all burning up. It was all burning away. 

Crowley was left alone to hear his own screams. 

He awoke gasping and clutching the edge of the couch, shirt soaked through with cold sweat. 

“Jusss’ a dream,” he cursed, burying his face into his hands. They still shook. His vision blurred slightly. He cursed again and launched himself upright to his feet. “Just..a dream.” 

He started into a frantic pace around the room, not really knowing what he was doing or where he was going. _Aziraphale_. He wanted to see him. Crowley stopped short. Where was he? That’s right—he was here, in the bookshop, and Aziraphale should be here with him. He wasn’t supposed to be alone and Aziraphale wasn’t here and—

The air smelled faintly of sulfur and smoke.

His blood ran cold. 

“Angel!” He yelled, thundering down the stairs with his heart beating a million miles per minute. “ _Aziraphale_!” 

He stumbled out into the shop. Empty. The street outside was not. It was too dark to see anything. While the flaming sword itself was lit like a beacon, it failed to illuminate the person holding it. Crowley felt faint at the sight of several struggling heaps on the ground. What if one of them was Aziraphale? What if—what if—

He miracled a crow-bar into his hand and burst through the doors. The biting night air scorched his lungs. Please please please be okay, he has to be, he has to be! “Aziraphale! Where—”

The red glint of a demon’s eyes leered from behind him. “ _There_ you are.” 

A inhuman hiss ripped out of Crowley’s throat. Too late. His back was completely exposed, right within the range of the brandished dagger. The demon cackled with delight. He pounced forward with a gleeful snarl, and Crowley twisted back anyway, desperately hoping that the blade would only catch his side. He wouldn’t discorporate with only half an abdomen, right? Satan help him, Crowley was pissed. He got jumped twice in one night, is going to end up with a knife through most of his gut, and couldn’t even check if Aziraphale was okay. 

Crowley was going to rip the demon’s throat out. If he managed not to discorporate in like, the next five seconds. 

The impact never came. In fact, it was his assailant that ended up with a flash of shock across his face, trembling eyes flickering down to the point of a sword protruding out of his chest. Crowley gaped. A gurgled choke was all the demon could make before his form burst into ashes. 

Aziraphale withdrew his sword, a forlorn look on his face. 

“ _Angel_.” Crowley couldn’t care how sappy he was being, but he ran up and all but crushed Aziraphale in his embrace. His skin prickled slightly—all the divine light the angel emitted kind of stung, but he didn’t care, he really didn’t, and hugged Aziraphale tighter. 

“Oh Crowley. I’m so sorry. Did we wake you? You should be resting.” 

“I can’t rest if you just disappear on me, Aziraphale!” 

“Oh dear.” The angel rubbed his back apologetically. “It wasn’t my intention to cause you any distress. I merely wanted to uh, what’s that lovely little expression again? Go ape and fucking feral.” 

Crowley choked and snatched his glasses off. “You...you’re really mad, aren’t you?” 

“Of course I’m angry!” Aziraphale seethed, almost in tears. His sword burst into flames again, throwing reds and oranges across his scowling face where cuts and bruises ornamented. “How dare they hurt you? How dare they come back and plan to hurt you again, right in front of me? Well—I’m done being nice. I’ll show them—them and anyone else—what happens when they don’t leave us alone!” 

“Okay,” Crowley nearly cried. That was the nicest thing anyone has ever said to him. He contemplated proposing marriage right on the spot. “Go kick their ass, angel.” 

“You don’t have to remind me, my dear,” was all Aziraphale said before the celestial, aurora-blue light returned to his eyes. Ouch. Crowley put his glasses back on, and snickered when the other demons didn’t have the same privilege. They deserved it, those bastards. If Aziraphale didn’t smite them (the chances are looking slimmer by the second), Crowley would wrestle them down into holy water himself. 

“Please, let me go! I’ll disappear. I will! I swear. I’ll never touch him again, just don’t discorporate me, _please_!” A demon begged. 

Crowley snorted. “Laying it on a bit thick there, pal!” 

Faster than a bolt of lightning, Aziraphale pressed the edge of his blade against the whimpering demon’s throat. 

“Demons lie,” he stated plainly. “It’s what you do.” 

That was it for demon number two. Number three and four realised just about how screwed they were, and began to direct all thoughts and actions towards running. No one ever told them about how impossible it was to run from a furious angel. Piss off the bad guys, well—they’d likely overlook it. Piss off the good guys however...

“ _Bismillah! No, we will not let you go_ ,” Crowley hummed, and miracled some popcorn and wine to enjoy the show. He whistled as Aziraphale descended on the fleeing demons, casting aside his sword to get them with bare fists. But demons were still demons after all, and retaliated with matched ferocity as they lashed out with teeth and claws. Aziraphale kept them at bay with slashes of his sharp primaries and the malevolent glow of his narrowed eyes. The street lamps exploded, one by one, their light winking out like blown candles as the angel and the demons continued their scuffle. 

Darkness draped over the street like a veil. Crowley yawned, setting aside his popcorn. “Angel?” 

No response. A light rain had begun to fall. Water pattered against his leather jacket and sloshed beneath his boots as he stepped out from the shelter, following the trial of dying flames. 

He found Aziraphale on his knees, cradling the blood-coated sword in his lap. Without his ethereal light and halo, out here in the rain he looked like any other man having a bad day. And he did look like he was having one. The worst day of sorts. 

Crowley walked up to his side quietly. “Alright there, angel?” 

Rainwater slid down Aziraphale’s chin as he stared at the moon. “I hate fighting. You do know that, do you Crowley?” 

The demon was silent. Instead, he extended a wing and shielded the angel from the rain. Aziraphale blinked up at him. 

“I do,” Crowley said at last. He cleared his throat. “Well. You’re soft.” 

“I _am_ ,” he said, defeated. “But...oh. Not all the time, sadly.” 

“That’s okay. It doesn’t really matter to me.” I’ll always love you, whoever you choose to be. 

Aziraphale folded his hands together as if in prayer, and smiled through his tears. 

————

“Crowley?”

“Hmm?” 

“You missed a spot.” 

Crowley stopped combing through the angel’s wings for a second. Incredulously, he said, “Oh, you did this on purpose didn’t you?” 

“Did what on purpose?” Aziraphale said innocently. 

“Getting all beat up so I’ll have to fuss over you like this,” Crowley accused. 

Aziraphale hid a smirk behind his hand. “Perhaps,” he purred. “But it’s very nice dear. You’re very nice.” 

“Hmph.” 

A fight with demons was always nasty and unpleasant. They fought dirty and entirely without class or consideration. Crowley hated seeing Aziraphale’s wings like this, feathers bent and mattered, the tips of them dripping gold ichor. He’d broken a blood feather somewhere. Those bastards did this to him. Crowley scowled. He’d go back to hell just to beat them up once more, he really would, consequences be damned. 

“Stay still,” he murmured, half to Aziraphale and half to himself as he reached towards his own wing and plucked a secondary. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed, in shock and disbelief. 

“They’ll grow back.” He shrugged. He then repeated the exact procedure the angel had performed for him, pushing the lone black feather into the seamless sea of whites.

Aziraphale stared at the new feather in his wing as if it were a jewel glittering in a pile of rocks. His eyes shone, both elated and sad. “Oh, but my dear...” 

“I don’t mind.” His face warmed slightly. He cleared his throat. “A few bald spot’s nothing, angel. If it’s for you.” 

A hand wound around the back of his neck gently, and Crowley blinked as if stupefied when Aziraphale kissed him sweetly. 

"Thank you,” he whispered, those breathless words shaping against his lips. 

Crowley’s face heated so badly he thought he would combust. He cleared his throat again, and drew back hastily once Aziraphale released him. “Uhh. Huh. Ahem. No problem. It’s...tickety...boo...” 

Oh lord. Did he just say that? He did, didn’t he? Satan give him strength. 

Aziraphale tried to quell his laughter but failed miserably. He then patted the space on the fluffy mattress beside him, and said shyly, “Stay the night?” 

Crowley pretended to hesitate. “Must I match with your pyjamas?” 

“No.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes. 

“Great.” He swapped into fully black silk pyjamas with just the faint imprint of snakes twirling about the lengths of his pants. “Tartan is horrid.” 

He ended up with a pillow flung into his face. Crowley whined, “Angel—”

“Keep quiet and go to sleep.” 

“ _Ngggk_.” 

“Oh come here,” Aziraphale sighed, winding his arms around him. Crowley smiled like a fool and curled into his chest. He lived for nights like this, where there was perhaps nothing concrete in his world but the warmth between their bodies and the softness of their joined hands. “Goodnight my dear.” 

Crowley kissed his forehead. “Mmm.” 

The nightmares left them alone for the rest of the night. All was well, so long as they were together. 

**Author's Note:**

> Woah, this came out way longer than expected :0 but it was so much fun to write! It definitely kept me going for the past 2 weeks.   
> Thanks for reading guys :3 Kudos and comments would be really appreciated!


End file.
